Vengeance
by Widu
Summary: Anders, most wanted mage of the Free Marches, and Gaelen Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, travel to Tevinter along with Isabela and Fenris, who is on an unexpected mission of mercy. Yet Vengeance follows them wherever they go...
1. Prologue

Author's note: Once again, the Dragon Age setting and most of the characters belong to Bioware, except for the ones who are mine and big scary lawyers lurk in the Fade if anyone tries to make money from this stuff.

This is a more or less original story that takes place after the events in Dragon Age II, although I cannot yet decide on the exact timeline (i.e. how much time has passed since the ending). I'll leave it in the middle for now, along with some room for future content - but regardless of what may follow in the gaming universe, this will be my version of the Champion's adventures after Kirkwall.

Many, many thanks to Reflection Muse for editing, beta-ing and generally kicking commas into the right places; any silly mistakes that remain are mine alone.

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><p><strong>Vengeance<strong>

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"_Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature."_

– Flemeth

"_There is a recipe to a good hero. It's like alchemy; take one part down to earth, one part selfless nobility, two parts crazy fool and season liberally with wild falsehoods."_

– _Varric Tethras_

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**Prologue**

_Kirkwall_

A small crowd had gathered on the pale, cream-coloured flagstones of Hightown. It was a scorching day and many of Kirkwall's rich and noble were taking refuge from the heat in their mansions, refreshed by chilled Tevinter wine. Still, some couldn't resist the temptation to see what the fuss was about or sent their servants to find out. At the command of a stern-faced nobleman wearing a cloth-of-gold doublet a nervous youth detached himself from the accompanying band of guards to pound on the door.

It swung open to reveal an elderly, grey-haired man in a roughspun shirt. "Yes?"

The young guardsman swallowed. "Citizen name of Amell?"

"You know who I am, boy," Gamlen Amell snapped irritably, "that's why you made such a point of not noticing me at the Blooming Rose last n-" he cut himself off when he caught sight of the audience that was virtually on his doorstep.

An attractive young woman in a powder blue dress appeared behind him, regarding the crowd with a curious look.

"Who is this, Amell?" the haughty nobleman demanded. "One of your whores?"

Gamlen drew himself up to his full modest height, his eyes glinting with anger. "This is Charade, my daughter."

The pretty brunette dropped into a mocking curtsey. "A pleasure, my lord."

"Yes, well..." The nobleman cleared his throat. This was not going quite as well as he planned. "This estate belongs to the property of the Champion of Kirkwall, now wanted by the laws of Chantry and man alike. As such, it shall be confiscated -"

"Are you mad?" Gamlen caustically interrupted him. "Your Champion is my nephew. With my sister – his mother – murdered in this thrice-blighted city, we are the only family he has left here!"

"Murdered by a crazy mage," came a voice from the back of the crowd. "Are you sure Lady Leandra's killer wasn't another of your nephew's pets?"

Charade placed a warning hand on her father's arm. Gamlen was now trembling with rage. "How _dare _you!" he spat. "Have you conveniently forgotten that he saved your hide from a bloody qunari invasion, that he put that lyrium-drunken Knight-Commander of yours down like the mad dog she was before she could raze this place to the ground?"

"He let that not-so-tame apostate of his destroy the Chantry with magic and start a war," another voice sneered, "and then fled the city with him!"

"_They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world, or beyond. _The Chant of Light is clear. They should both hang for this!" a woman cried.

"Really?" a lady with an Orlesian accent inquired sharply. "The templars were never going to loosen their crushing hold on mages, even good ones like my poor son! And the Chantry let them!"

"And so the Champion allowed his renegade mage to blow up a house of faith?" the first speaker scoffed. "If he cares so much for the apostate, let him share his fate I say."

The imperious-looking nobleman sighed. The Champion of Kirkwall had made many enemies. He counted himself among them for the man's common birth and inconvenient sympathies, but it appeared the troublesome Gaelen Hawke had made enough friends to cause a controversy even in his absence.

"Excuse me. Mind the elbows, thanks. Excuse me. Sorry."

A short figure dressed in a open-chested yellow silk shirt with a crossbow slung over his back shouldered his way through the assortment of Kirkwall's well-to-do, flourishing a document bearing many official-looking seals. "My apologies," said the dwarf, "pressing business elsewhere. Deals to make, people to shoot, you know how it is. Varric Tethras, at you service." He handed the document to the astonished lord, who gave it a brief glance at first, then a sharper one as his grey eyebrows knitted together.

"Bran?" he asked finally. A somewhat dishevelled looking magistrate with thinning red hair took a careful look at the scroll. "Estate and assets... renouncing ownership of the Hawke-Amell residence in Hightown in favour of Lavinia Amell and Gamlen Amell... managed by Varric Tethras..." he raised his head. "_You_?"

"_You_?" echoed the golden-clad lord.

"_Lavinia_?" asked Varric, staring at Charade, who shrugged noncommitally.

"Anyway," he continued amiably, "you'll find it's all there. Legit. Can't disown a man who already disowned himself."

"I cannot believe he would entrust all of this to... well, you're a... a dwarf."

"Amazing deduction on your part, my lord. Yes, I'm a dwarf. I guess that's why he did it. We dwarves are attracted to shiny objects. Not you, obviously. My lord." Varric helpfully pried the document from the seneschal's unresisting fingers. "Are we done then?"

Lord and magistrate exchanged unnerved glances. "Yes," Bran decided. "The seal is genuine. Even if a fair amount of the more liquid assets seems to have unaccountably vanished."

"Unfortunate," agreed Varric, who'd helped them vanish.

With the entertainment at an end and the heat still stifling, none of the nobles, servants or guards lingered for long. Varric offered a hand to Charade, which she took graciously, as the three of them made their way to Lowtown. "Hightown is rather pretty," Varric said pleasantly, "with the nobles out of the way. But once we get to the Hanged Man, I've got a bit of news for the both of you..."


	2. Flagon of Red

**Flagon of Red**

_Llomerryn_

The Rivaini liked to dine in the open air, preferably several hours after sunset. At a time when most Fereldans would be in their beds, tucked beneath their warm blankets, the lantern-lit outdoor taverns and patios of Llomerryn were just starting to fill, the sultry air rich with the smells of roasting meat and fish.

Isabela, pirate queen of the Eastern seas and scourge of taverns across Thedas, breathed in deeply. "Going to be a thunderstorm tonight," she said, her amber eyes glittering with pleased anticipation. She flicked an olive at Fenris, who plucked it out of the air and ate it without missing a beat. One of his small, rare smiles tugged at one corner of his mouth.

Gaelen Hawke leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his unruly black hair. Everything about the Champion of Kirkwall was defiant. His own sister had once quipped wryly that even his hair put up a fight. "They say you can get everything here," he said quietly. "I wonder how much they charge for an apostate on the run and a certain Champion nowadays?"

"We're leaving the day after tomorrow," Isabela replied reassuringly. "No one here knows your face. It's not your face they're looking at anyway."

Elves and humans with a nose for coin – raiders, privateers, and adventurous merchants every one – flooded to Llomerryn from every corner of Thedas, but it was the Rivaini who truly stood out. Isabela's low-cut, flamboyant outfit and impressive amount of golden jewellery turned out to be relatively plain.

One particularly fine specimen of Rivaini fashion sense was sitting a few tables away. He was wearing a sleeveless vest, no shirt, that showed off his dusky tattoo-covered skin and several heavy, braided chains of filigreed gold. His nose was pierced, as were his ears; the left one sported an entire row of golden rings all along its curve.

Fenris had seen the man too. "It seems even I can blend in," he said, his deep voice tinged by a hint of amusement. It was positively confusing Hawke to see him so at ease, even if the poised fight-or-flight look never quite left the elf completely. Still, in Llomerryn that was hardly behaviour limited to escaped slaves branded with lyrium.

"Oh yes," Hawke grinned, "you fit right in, if you keep the moving through walls and the shoving your fist through people to a minimum. Isabela says it's a mark of status, even. The tattoos. Not shoving your fist through people."

Isabela nodded in agreement, nibbling at another olive. After wiping her hands she playfully swatted Anders on the back of the head. "I remember you had a proper earring too when we met in Denerim. Lost it, did you?"

"Sold it," the mage replied, rubbing his head and smiling wistfully, "when I was on the run from the Grey Wardens, I think."

"A shame. You looked dashing, and you preened like there was no tomorrow!"

The smile lit up his warm brown eyes. "Well, I was dashing a lot like there was no tomorrow. And for the record, I didn't _preen_. Much."

"Yes you did," Isabela chuckled. "More so than the girls at the Pearl."

Hawke groaned. "Alright, if either of you two mentions him doing 'that electricity thing' again, I swear there'll be trouble."

Anders and Isabela exchanged a guilty glance while Fenris snorted in disgust. "It's still funny," the pirate mused. "I would never have guessed either one of you'd end up with another man. And I _hate_ to be wrong."

Anders smirked at her. "Oh, you're not _wrong_. I do prefer women as a rule, if that's any consolation. But rules are meant to be broken."

Isabela raised her glass in a cheerful salute. "Whatever you do during that magic monkey business of yours, it _does_ seem to be working. Such a refreshingly un-Fereldan outlook." She winked at Hawke. "Unlike some. Can't wrap my head around it that for him, it's just you. Well. And Justice. I wonder if that counts as two?"

Gaelen Hawke covered his face with his palm. "Thanks, Isabela. I don't think half the population of Par Vollen heard you."

She seemed unperturbed by that and pointedly ignored the sudden flare in Fenris' green eyes at the mention of the spirit merged with Anders' body and soul. That was Isabela for you, and Hawke remembered with a strange mixture of apprehension and admiration that every man at their table had shared her bed at least once. _She's like a side dish. Comes with the meal_, Anders had once remarked dryly. Resigned after a decade of failing to rein in Isabela, he gave the mage a sidelong glance instead.

Anders was still smiling, pretending not to notice Fenris' glare. The lines in his face were smoother now, softening its sharp angles. Comfortably slouched in his chair, there was no tension in his shoulders, no burden wearing him down for the moment. It wouldn't remain like that. The 'magic monkey business' came with a price, and after tomorrow the shadows would return to haunt him again. Best not to think on it.

When Fenris pushed back his chair, Hawke followed his example and he and Anders waited for Isabela to knock back the last of her wine. She was staying in a room large enough for two, much like the one Hawke shared with Anders. Fenris, on the other hand, opted for one about the size of a cupboard at the Hawke mansion back in Kirkwall. It was conveniently situated near the stairs though and had a small window with a view of the street. The instincts of a Tevinter fugitive were too deeply ingrained, even though he'd been a free man for years now.

Hawke watched as the elf gracefully navigated his way through the other guests, careful to avoid any unnecessary contact, and disappeared into the entrance of the Flagon of Red. As he waited for Isabela and Anders, a hand landed on his shoulder. It belonged to the tattooed Rivaini, who bared several golden teeth in a cocky grin. Hawke's muscles involuntarily tightened and his golden-brown eyes narrowed at the sight of the man. Unlikely as it seemed, had someone been paying actual attention to Isabela's words as they were finishing their meal?

The Rivaini's gaze wandered to the twin blades at the stranger's belt. "Those are some mighty fine shanks o' steel," he said in a voice that was surprisingly light. "Reckon y'know how to handle 'em?"

Isabela crossed her arms. "If you're looking for a duel, I can spare a moment to remind you of the taste of dust."

"Sod off, Isabela. Wasn't talkin' to you, now was I?" His appraising eyes lingered on Hawke. _Of course. _Bearing a blade in Llomerryn could be an invitation to a duel, while not doing so might be an invitation to something else. Someone who carried a weapon had better know how to use it, and Hawke was carrying two.

"Very well," he sighed. "Where do you want to go?"

The Rivaini's grin widened. "Back o' the Flagon?"

Hawke nodded wordlessly and followed the man to a dimly lit alley behind the inn with Isabela cursing softly and Anders' expression suddenly grim. _Andraste's tits, don't let him lose control_, Hawke pleaded silently to whoever was listening, _not now. Not here. _

The Rivaini drew a wickedly sharp sword with a lightly curved blade. The yellow glow of the alley's single lantern glinted off the silverite and was reflected in the gold adorning the man's ears and nose. "To the death or first blood?"

Hawke shrugged. "I don't know what it is that makes people want to poke holes in me, but I hardly think it's worth dying for."

"First blood it is then."

They circled each other warily. Despite his longer reach the Rivaini waited for Hawke to make the first move to see if he could tempt the Fereldan into a careless rush. Eager as he was to prove his superiority, his patience had its limits however. Soon enough he darted sideways both to strike and to make himself less of a target. Hawke dodged the attack and caught its follow-through in a parry even as the Rivaini's sandaled foot shot upwards. Twisting both man and sword aside, the kick merely glanced him while he kept his focus.

He tried a few feints. Some of those might have worked, but he held back to watch his opponent's counterattacks become increasingly vicious. They were both sweating now; tiny rivulets were trickling down the Rivaini's bare chest. Finally the tattooed man's face lit up in triumph when the next swipe of his slender blade opened up a gash in Hawke's arm.

Satisfied, he put up his sword and nodded appreciatively. "Not half bad."

"Maker's balls," Hawke swore. Blood was quickly drenching his shirt in a blossoming deep red flower. "Now we're happy and bleeding... can we call it a night?"

The Rivaini laughed. "Well said, mate. Good fight, too, 'til I tickled you. Fair sailin' to you and yours." He sauntered off and disappeared into the darkness, still grinning.

With gentle fingers Anders rolled up Hawke's sleeve to examine the wound. His face was paler than Hawke's and even Isabela suffered a temporary loss for words. While Anders held a softly glowing palm over the cut and Hawke's torn flesh knitted itself back together into smooth skin, she eventually sputtered: "You could have had him! What in blazes did you do that for?"

Hawke briefly and thankfully squeezed his lover's hand before trying to flex the stiffness out of his newly healed arm. "I've had worse than this. It's better than to have twenty more of his like on our doorstep by tomorrow too."

"Oh. Good point. I knew I took you along on this trip for a reason."

The first drops of rain were spattering down on them when they entered the Flagon of Red. Isabela steered straight for the bar where two Antivans greeted her with Antivan enthusiasm and a double whiskey. Anders decided to take a bath, adding wryly that it'd been a while since he was last properly bled on. When Hawke replied he'd check up on Fenris, a hint of the mage's lightheartedness returned. "He's probably polishing that enormous sword of his," he whispered in a low voice.

Snickering, Hawke leapt up the stairs two at a time. After he'd knocked on the door of the small room nearby and gained a growled permission to enter, he had to literally bite back a burst of laughter when he saw Fenris sitting on the narrow bed, sharpening the edge of his large two-hander with an oiled whetstone. There was a jug of wine on a side table. The elf gestured at it with a lyrium-tattooed hand and Hawke helped himself to a generous swig.

Fenris carefully set the sword aside. "You're bleeding," he observed.

"Not anymore. Idiot Rivaini. It's a bloody miracle the bodies don't pile up in the streets."

The elf raised his eyebrows. "Well, you can't be everywhere at once."

That _did_ make him laugh. Fenris' vivid green eyes remained unreadable. "What are you here for, Hawke?" he asked. "Anders? I'd have killed the man. That doesn't mean I will do so now."

"If _you_'d met a spirit of Justice that offered to merge with you, you'd have laid waste to half of Kirkwall to slaughter all the mages before even Knight-Commander Meredith could finish the thought."

Fenris picked up the wine jug, took a few gulps and handed it back. "Perhaps. But as it may be, I'm not an abomination."

"Neither is he."

The elf shrugged. "He's a mage who merged with a Fade spirit and warped the both of them. Spirit, demon. The people in that Chantry are just as dead."

"They are," Hawke agreed. "As is most of my family. You might have wanted me to kill the only loved one left to me to satisfy your burning hatred of magic, but I'd die protecting him if need be."

"I should rejoice to hear that," Fenris retorted, scathingly calm. "After all, it worked so well for your mother and brother." His markings started to glow with a soft, warning light as his body unvoluntarily reacted to the stricken expression on Hawke's face and the shift in his stance. He didn't reach for his weapons, though his knuckles had whitened around the jug of wine.

Fenris rubbed his forehead. "I... apologize. That was extremely ill done. I like to think I'm making an effort to let go of this bone-deep hate, to create a new life out of ashes... but sometimes, my temper flares as badly as these." He lifted his lyrium-marked arms.

Hawke took a sip from the jug, wiped it off and passed it back, crushing his rage and his sorrow, swallowing it along with the bitter taste of the wine. "I'm here because I wanted to know how you were. Seeing as to where we're going."

"Well, now you know," said the elf , but the sharp edge of irony was directed at himself. "I'd never have predicted I'd go back to Tevinter of my own free will one day, much less for the sake of my sister. A sister with magic of her own."

_A sister you ran off and nearly killed in your grudge against magic_, Hawke thought treacherously, but he bit his tongue. Fenris and his sister had parted badly. It was commendable of him to wonder what might become of her. In deciding that his hostility would drive her back in the arms of the magisters, to become the very monster he hated, he was facing his own demons. In fact their respective goals of visiting Tevinter were not so different at all.

"It is... disquieting," Fenris finished softly. "You must be familiar with it."

"Walk a mile in these shoes," Hawke snorted. The elf shook his head; the shadow of a half-smile had returned.

"I don't wear shoes, Hawke. And as for Anders... do I think he can master that cursed spirit? No. But if there's anyone who can get him to do it, it would be you."

When Hawke returned to his to room, Anders was sprawled on the bed, fast asleep even though by now thunder was growling and the sky outside the window was rent asunder by bright cracks of lightning. His hair was still wet and his crumpled shirt showed off a strip of stomach. Hawke stroked it. The only reply he got was a faint 'mm', but no movement at all.

_Sleeping with him is like having a cat on your bed. You always end up with less than a quarter of space._ Yet seeing him like this made him feel like a criminal for even contemplating to rouse the mage. Instead he shrugged out of the bloodstained shirt, draped an arm around the sleeping Anders and closed his eyes.


	3. Lost in Dreams

Author's note: This one was a bitch.

Anyway, my apologies for the long wait; I should get back to more regular updates from now on. Many thanks to Reflection Muse, as always, for editing.

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><p><strong>Lost in Dreams<strong>

Midday rests were common here, with the heat of the early afternoon sun beating down in force. The only people working during these hours were those who had little choice. Among those were the poorest of the dockworkers, whose deeply tanned bodies seemed immune to the blaze, and of course the innkeepers and tavern proprietors, who made most of their money from providing the necessary shelter and refreshment.

Anders' body was all in favour of a catnap, but his mind wasn't very cooperative. It knew what was waiting for him and recoiled from it. He'd never been very fond of the Fade, not even when his dreams didn't include a powerful mage who would drag him through seven layers of agony to get him a step closer to mastering the spirit within. It was a pointless rebellion though. The rising temperature was sapping his strength and the airy room with its high ceiling was pleasantly cool and comfortable.

Gaelen Hawke sat on its only chair, his feet rested casually on the room's matching desk. He was radiating a vigilance that was – for lack of a better word – hawkish. Anders knew it so well by now that it made his throat tighten and his chest ache. It was the look he wore when shielding Anders from his nightmares, and from _this_. Anders' own laid-back attitude had faded – it had to be paid for. Afterward he'd be drained and the deep melancholy would embrace him again like an old lover.

Silence. A warm breeze from the open window passed over the bare skin of his chest, adding to the heaviness in his limbs. Actually, it wasn't all that unpleasant to just lie here, watching small motes of dust dance in the air and shadows play on the walls. He might not fall asleep for hours...

He found himself in a lush forest with trees and plants that were somehow too verdant, their blossoms impossibly bright. _Just great. Don't fall asleep for hours, right? _Around him shapes were bleeding into one another under the diffuse light. Eveything looked as if it could change into something else any moment. It could, in fact; this was the Fade. _Home. _Except that it wasn't, not to his human side.

Like in the material world, he'd lost himself to the spirit of Justice more than once here since they merged for the purpose of improving the fate of mages—a merge that changed them both forever. Their path had been a dangerous one. Both Justice's purity and his own humanity had been tainted, twisting the spirit into the senseless hatred of Vengeance. Here, Anders had been turned inside out and trapped in his own body, looking out of its blazing eyes trying to scream, to move, while the spirit pushed down the human mind deep into the soul they shared.

But this was not a dream of his own. It was a temporary refuge of the sort Feynriel liked to create. The other mage had actively tried to summon an air of peace, as far as that was possible in the Fade. _Part home then. And part prison._ Anders looked at his own reflection in a small shimmering pool. The brown of his eyes had yielded to a softly glowing blue, but he was still in control of himself. He should gain confidence from that, as it had been very different at times since Gaelen first asked Feynriel, with his unique magics, for aid.

The rare talent of a Dreamer, or _somniari_ as the Tevinters called it, allowed him to enter the Fade at will and to shape it as he wished, which included the dreams of others. Dreamer mages were exceptionally rare. They were only found among elves and in Tevinter, where the Chantry verse that 'magic was created to serve man and never to rule over him' was mainly quoted to be pointed and laughed at.

Over time Gaelen had rescued Feynriel from templars, slavers and demons respectively. The angry sixteen-year-old boy, born in an elven Alienage, had grown into a capable young man since he first journeyed to Tevinter to seek out a magister who would tutor him. Right now, the apprentice mage was simply leaning against a tree. He smiled at Anders when he caught sight of him. There was a note of pride in that too, even if he hadn't drawn on Anders' memories to create anything to test his control, to break, reforge and temper it. Yet.

Despite the Tevinter-styled robes, Feynriel didn't quite look the part. He was about Gaelen's height, which was barely an inch shorter than Anders, but without the broad shoulders or sinewy strength. His build was human enough, with spindly arms and legs, but his narrow face, framed by yellow blonde hair, had high cheekbones and green elven eyes. It was a look that, apart from his elven mother, raised a few fair questions about the pedigree of his human merchant father as well.

"Hello, Anders. How's life treating you and Hawke?"

"The usual, though I've not been kicked in the face nearly enough due to lack of templar." He sighed. "But 'mage on the run' still doesn't have a great retirement plan, and blowing up a Chantry doesn't do wonders for severance pay either. He deserves better."

Feynriel's full lips twitched in amusement, but he shook his head in mild disapproval. "Does he deserve better or do you deserve worse?"

"Both?" Anders hazarded.

"Best be careful," Feynriel advised, "he doesn't take kindly to people tormenting his loved ones."

"But I'm _good_ at tormenting myself," Anders said wryly. "Composite creature, remember?"

"I know. And there are worse anchors to lash your sanity to than Hawke, I suppose."

At that, the glow in Anders' eyes flared, enough to reflect off the mirror surface of the small pond and make Feynriel take an involuntary step back, even though nothing could harm him here. "Hold it back," he said softly, "you've been doing very well."

Anders pressed his palms into his face hard enough to hurt. He remembered with a shudder how Gaelen had restrained him when he and Feynriel made one of their first attempts. Justice, or Vengeance, took offence, unwilling to be mastered or mitigated, displeased even with the idea of being on the run rather than to stand and fight. He'd struggled to hold his ground behind Anders, one arm tightly around him, one hand twisting the mage's wrist behind his back. Anders was dimly aware of the voice shouting angrily into his ear. _Mage, being oppressed and run ragged right here!_

Andthe raging glare had died down, just as it did now. Feynriel nodded, pleased. There'd been no need for him to intervene yet. Anders straightened, the blue glow once more confined to his eyes as he bleakly stared at Feynriel. "I hate the Fade," he groaned. "Even more than the Deep Roads. Let's get this over with."

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><p>It was the last day in Llomerryn before they'd set sail again, but Gaelen Hawke hardly felt like joining Isabela on a last spell of making merry and getting thoroughly drunk. He'd left his post at the desk to rest against one white plastered wall until his edginess got the better of him. Then he'd drift back to the other wall and mirrored his own movements as if performing a slow and offbeat dance.<p>

They finally seemed to be on the right path, even if the road proved to be more than rocky. His own sorrows were something different altogether from Anders' wild mood swings, but maybe he was slowly on the mend as well. On darker days, it was like the evening in Kirkwall when the ground trembled under his feet and everything came apart. On darker days, he was a mabari hound, solid as a rock and twice as stubborn, a beloved companion, but ultimately one you kept on a leash. And he knew all about nightmares.

Mere hours before his mother was murdered, she'd stopped him to talk about marriage arrangements before he left the estate in Hightown on some assignment or other. Thankfully, that was what he remembered best of all, his own confession that courtship of the Rineharts' youngest daughter might not be entirely fair to her – and lady Leandra's peal of laughter and the twinkle in her eyes when she assured him she was the very last person in Thedas to berate him for running off with an apostate mage.

The night of her death he spent in a daze, feeling nothing as if he were the first of Malcolm Hawke's children to be made Tranquil. He recalled going to bed at some point, still fully dressed, although he took off his shoes and Anders kicked off his boots. He startled awake with darkness suffocating him like a thick velvet blanket while the image of the murderer burned in his mind. The man's features were blurry and of no consequence. The only thing he saw was his mother's head dangling from the mad mage's hand by the silky grey hair, the rigid and, above all, _dead _look of horror on her stricken face with nothing underneath, hideously naked, desecrated...

He felt Anders' hands grab his shoulders, gently shaking him from the dream and holding him close. The tangled knot he'd held hard in his heart unraveled all at once while he screamed his grief into the night. Years later, after the destruction of the entire Kirkwall Chantry, their positions were reversed, but the nightmares of a man who saw himself as actually being the nameless thing in the dark with the blood on his hands were even harder to ease. Though Maker knew he tried.

At least they were getting somewhere. He dared hope it might improve once they met with Feynriel and his master in person, although dealing with a Tevinter magister would prove a challenge. They had to be careful. _And take it one step at a time. _He'd laughed at Fenris about a specific pearl of outlandish wisdom, but in all honesty there was something to it. _Nobody trips over mountains. Pass all the pebbles in your path and you'll find you have crossed the mountain. _

He paced toward the opposite wall again. No one forbade him to hate vicious, two-edged, Fade-shaped pebbles with a passion.

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><p>Anders had last seen this chamber in the Circle Tower when he passed his Harrowing – the ritual that made him a mage by Circle standards. He'd done so quickly and cleanly, to the surprise of many. There was nothing clean about it now. Blood spattered the confining walls. He did not quite remember how it got there. All he knew was the fire inside that bathed the Harrowing Chamber in a permeating glare.<p>

Three robed figures that had stood here at different moments in time cast their black, drawn-out shadows on the smooth marble floor. _A_ _guardian,_ _a friend and a hero, _it filtered through his mind. The recognition was violently thrown aside. "Do not keep me caged! I will _not _be held! Never! Never again!" There was an echo to the cry that had little to do with the Harrowing Chamber's acoustics.

"I'm not keeping you caged, my friend," a different voice responded calmly. "You can leave with a word, a thought."

"Andraste knows you've always wanted to leave this place," the oldest of the robed mages said sadly in a familiar stern but kind tone. "You were never very compliant. It could have saved us so much." The venerable First Enchanter ignored the snarl of the fiery creature in front of him. "I've tried to protect you as well as I could. This isn't Justice, lad. Justice is harmony."

The second mage lowered his cowl to reveal a careworn face with salt-and-pepper hair and the three-day stubble Anders remembered rather than the full beard his former lover and friend wore when he saw him last. When he was forced to kill him because Karl had been made Tranquil for not being _compliant. _He wanted to rush towards his best friend, to express his deep sorrow that he'd come too late to make good an escape when it really mattered. He didn't.

"This isn't who you are," Karl said quietly. His blue eyes were filled with compassion. "This isn't you, and this isn't Justice. Justice is balance."

The last mage was an elven woman. She'd spent her entire youth in the Circle of Magi, but still helped a friend escape when he was rumoured to be made Tranquil. That earned her a conscription into the Grey Wardens, and irony dictated that it was to be her, an elf and a mage, who saved Ferelden from an Archdemon and the coming of a fifth Blight. Anders had been very proud of her. "Justice is to give what is due and no more," she whispered.

_Their words are nothing!_ the spirit fumed. _They are theirs! They let themselves be bound, they shackle others!_ No. _The First Enchanter, who watched over us, his captive charges, to the best of his ability. Best friend, dead. Hero of Ferelden, a girl he never had the chance to go any further with than putting the statues in the Tower into strange positions together. _Anders let out a scream that was like nothing human, but didn't lash out. The only thing he did was fall, endlessly fall until he woke, very much himself – whoever that was – in a rented room in the Flagon of Red, exhausted and with a throbbing headache.

* * *

><p>They shared a quick meal of bread, cheese and olives. Isabela and Fenris went out drinking and when Hawke asked who was going to watch them, she airily replied they'd watch each other, of course. He grinned as they disappeared into the warm night, a smirking, dusky woman in a white shirt that showed off everything, and a prickly, white-haired elf in a black tunic that revealed nothing.<p>

He gave Anders' haunted, ashen profile a sharp look. On top of the fatigue there was something else, something in the way his tired eyes didn't quite meet Hawke's. Things like that were always more obvious when he was in a state like this. Hawke swirled his wine around in its cup. "Well," he eventually commanded, "out with it."

Anders blinked. "What?"

"You made me a promise after you so generously let me aid you to blow up a Chantry," Hawke said helpfully. "No more secrets."

The mage shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "It's not a secret, as such. More a request."

Hawke quirked an eyebrow, but his heart missed a beat. He just hoped he hid it well. "Which is?"

"Remember that thing I really shouldn't have told you? How every Grey Warden doesn't have to worry about dying from old age because of the Taint?"

"Eventually the Deep Roads call."

Anders' voice suddenly sounded muffled, as if he had a mouth full of cotton. "Spirits can't be Tainted. That means I may not face the Calling for a very long time. As it is, I already have trouble sensing darkspawn."

Hawke didn't understand. "That's _good_ news, isn't it?"

"Not really. If the Taint does not kill me, and I should lose myself completely..."

"You won't."

"If so," Anders pressed, "I need you to put an end to it. To me."

Hawke sat still as a statue. "You can't ask me that!"

Anders winced, but continued relentlessly. "Better it be you than someone else."

Hawke imagined what it would feel like to slide a blade into that lean, soft, warm and breathing body he knew so very well. He shivered. "You're spent and dispirited," he argued, and flinched. "Bad choice of words. But still."

Anders' fingers listlessly played with an unused spoon. _You've wounded him before. There'll come a day when you wound him for the last time. _He frowned as he realized he'd quietly mouthed those words, as if he were still by himself in the Fade. "I have to know," he urged. "We both know I'm not a picture of stability."

Hawke pressed his lips together. "I've never been good at refusing you anything, and that's as much of a promise you'll get from me."

"For what it's worth, I'm truly sorry."

"I know."

* * *

><p>Isabela would likely rouse them early; she seemed to be as immune to hangovers as to excise taxes, but despite Anders' exhaustion he didn't look like he'd get much sleep. He lay on his back with his hands tucked behind his head, staring blankly at the ceiling as if the world would come down on him. "You need sleep," Hawke reminded him. "Otherwise you'll go nuts."<p>

"More nuts," Anders corrected darkly.

Hawke sat up and rolled him over onto his belly, drawing only a huff of surprise. When he opened his mouth to protest, Hawke cut him short. "Shut it," he said pleasantly and trailed his fingers through the mage's hair, down the back of his head, and kept doing so until Anders' breaths turned deep and steady. He moved on to trace lazy circles on neck and shoulderblades and used the back of his thumbs on either side of his lover's spine. He'd take his time.

Anders had half-closed his eyes when Hawke finally reached his feet. "You're good," he mumbled drowsily.

"Thanks. I've had a good teacher. Now sleep, damn you."

The next morning, Isabela proved him right by strolling into their room without as much as a warning, munching on an apple. "Good morning, boys."

Anders was already fully dressed. Hawke was still in the middle of washing, but decided there wasn't much use in trying to hide behind a potted plant. Not that there was any good reason to do so, since there wasn't much of him Isabela hadn't already seen. He scowled at her. "Couldn't be bothered to knock?"

"Why would I want to knock after picking the lock?"

"There's that."

Isabela beamed at him. "Ready to make some profit?"

Hawke dried himself off and put on his clothes. "I already told you that plundering the ships of random innocents is not an option."

Isabela glanced at Anders and patted Hawke on the shoulder. "I know that doesn't float your boat. Fortunately, most ships in these waters don't have single innocent soul on board. Qunari, Tevinter slavers, pirates... _everyone_ knows you can't trust pirates."

Anders gave a short bark of sardonic laughter. Isabela took this as an encouragement and nodded. "I'm brilliant, I know. Let's go."


	4. Against the Waves

Author's note: It turns out I have entirely too much fun writing pirates. More to come in the near future. It may take a little longer than usual, since I'm going away for a week to good ole England!

A great _Yarr!_ and thank you to Reflection Muse for editing. The responsibility for any silliness that remains or was added later is mine alone.

* * *

><p><strong>Against the Waves<strong>

Hawke and Anders were both plagued with seasickness when they first set off for Rivain, but now they were quite enjoying their journey. The trick was to avoid looking at the ship at the same time as the sea or horizon, though it took some getting used to and was often difficult to watch out for all the time. It was easy to forget the signs at first, then a dash to one side of the ship or the other was necessary. This was usually followed by a look of cool amusement from Fenris and merciless teasing from Isabela.

But their bodies had adjusted, just as she said they would. It was the same with the sunburn; in due time, Anders didn't need to treat their skin for angry redness anymore. He acquired a light tan and strands of gold now threaded his dark blonde hair. Hawke bronzed like a Fereldan sailor, though he was no match for the Rivaini or the Marchers or even Fenris. To complete the look, Isabela had given him a snappy red kerchief to wear on his head, much like the blue one she herself favoured.

Hawke and Anders had a cabin to themselves. This was fine with the Marcher crew members, who all shared a healthy respect for a Champion. They did feel uncomfortable around mages, but were practical enough to see the advantage of having a ship's wizard where other raiders had none. The Rivaini also approved; they held magic in great esteem and thought it obvious for a mage to have private quarters, even if he chose to share them with some man who called himself "Champion".

A few days after leaving Llomerryn, Markham, a cheerful sailor originally from Amaranthine, began pointing out bits of sail and complicated rigging. To Gaelen Hawke they all looked alike. He kept forgetting their names and purpose, or worse, confusing them. Fortunately, Markham alternated his lessons with wild sea stories that would have made Varric proud.

The weather was fair and the salty air and sun on their backs had the _Siren_'s crew feeling happy, or at least content. Whenever he looked at Isabela, Hawke marvelled at how, during all those years he'd known her back in Kirkwall, he'd never noticed that a certain part of her was missing. Here, with the wind in her long dark hair, with a proud, impossibly wide grin on her face and the deck of a ship under her feet, she seemed her complete self.

The change of the tides was somewhat like the beaten-down, grim despair Anders was prone to, especially after going through one his visits to the Fade; no matter how low the fire within the mage burned, though, he would always come back to Hawke eventually. His dry sense of humour would return, his mood would lighten and the shadows that scared even Isabela would leave him. Until then Hawke tasked himself with keeping his love from the darkness that threatened to suck him in and from dangerous undercurrents that would drown them both in grief and guilt.

Familiarizing himself with the ship or simply lying on his back on the floorboards to watch the fluffy clouds while being warmed by the sun and cursed by passing sailors was his own way of keeping his spirits up. So far it was working fine.

Suddenly, Markham stopped his mystifying talk of mizzen masts and port topgallant studding-sails to look sharply at Isabela, who was staring into the horizon with narrowed eyes. Markham glanced at the weather vanes that were no longer streaming as much as flapping fitfully and then back at the sky, which was slowly shifting from blue to slate. "Captain?"

"I don't like the look of this," Isabela agreed. "Prepare to take in sail!" she added in a raised voice. The crew responded by springing into action.

Markham nodded. "It's easier to shake out a reef than put one in," he said in an aside to Hawke. "Looks like we're heading for heavy weather."

Hawke didn't bother to ask what a reef was or how in blazes one was supposed to shake one out or put one in. The second part couldn't be any clearer though. Unbidden memories from years ago, when he, mother and Bethany first left for Kirkwall on a ship from Gwaren, came flooding back. Weather was capricious. It could tear sails to shreds and reduce masts to wreckage, and it had certainly turned Gaelen Hawke into a nauseous, curled-up ball of misery. _Andraste's flaming arse. Better shut up, hold on and hope for the best._ He seriously considered making that his life motto.

The wind picked up strength as the sky darkened further. The ship rose, carried by foam-crested waves and lingered for a few gut-wrenching moments before crashing back into the lead-coloured water again and again. It made Hawke feel like he was about to lose his lunch any moment, but a spot close to the railing was not quite what he fancied right now.

It became difficult to see. The salty spray made his eyes burn, but not enough to miss the sight of a dark wall of churning clouds that was rapidly approaching. Isabela was shouting orders. Words like and 'braces' and 'bowlines' and 'haul taut' and 'heave to' washed over Hawke like the stinging rain that started to fall. Some of them were even directed at him. "Isabela!" he bellowed back desperately, "_I don't speak Ship!_"

He nearly stumbled over his own feet as Markham grabbed one of his soaked sleeves to drag him along. Between the screams of the squall and the strained groans of the ship's beleaguered wood, Hawke followed the simple, terse orders the sailor shouted into his ear. Waves that crashed into the ship sometimes swept over the deck, and he had to cling to anything within reach to avoid being washed over the side with them. When there was nothing left for him to do, he settled for looping a length of rope around himself.

Dragging a wet forearm over his face, he saw Anders make his way over the rain-slicked deck to a white-faced man who'd taken a nasty fall and was clutching what looked to be a broken collarbone. A stab of fear shot through him, though he kept reminding himself Anders was surefooted and nimble. And a good swimmer, for all the good it did someone swept into the waves in a gale like this. He breathed a sigh of relief when the two men stumbled to relative safety and locked their arms around whatever rigging they could find. Anders' gaze met Hawke's and though their respective strings of colourful curses were largely drowned out by the storm, it didn't take much imagination to fill in the blanks.

Finally, the lashing rain slowed to a shower. The winds eased, and the ship's movement gradually became more akin to the movement Hawke associated with sailing, rather than that of riding a wild high dragon. Due to Anders' magic and a dose of sheer good luck, there were no severe injuries or losses among the crew. Aside from some repairable tears in the sails, the ship was also relatively intact.

Isabela looked like a drowned cat, but her amber eyes were gleaming. "What did I tell you, Hawke? The best feeling in the world! Too bad about the wet and cold part, but that's easily solved. That elf is too grumpy by half, but at least he's warm."

Despite his chattering teeth, Hawke snickered. Fenris would sleep anywhere he wanted – and when he wanted a measure of comfort he simply bunked with Isabela, with or without an invitation.

In the privacy of their own cabin, Hawke struggled to free himself of his sodden clothing. Brine bit into his chafed and bloody palms until Anders took them into his own and healed them. "You're good at this," Hawke observed with a sage nod. "You should do something with that."

That drew a faint smile. When both of them were once again wearing something comfortable, he watched Anders vigourously dry his hair. The result was... interesting. Behind him, Hawke grinned, and ruffled it some more. He wrapped his arms around the mage and rested his own wet head on his shoulder. They stood still for a while, enjoying each other's body warmth until Anders ruefully disentangled himself. "I am curious where we are," he said with a note of concern. "Maker knows where that bloody storm left us."

They found Isabela studying a nautical chart that covered nearly the entire surface of her table. "Have some mulled wine," she offered graciously. "Or grog. I prefer the grog, but the wine's good." Leaned against the wall, Fenris lifted his cup in mock salute. Judged by the rosiness in the elf's face, he'd taken both the grog and the wine. "We're not that much off course," Isabela continued, "and better yet, we didn't spring any leaks. I'm not exactly looking forward to treading on the sparkly toes of Tevinter magisters, but you boys'll get your chance soon enough."

"Forget their sparkly toes," Fenris growled softly. "If we want to find your apprentice magister and get Varania out of the household of someone like Ahriman, we have to watch our backs. Not in the last place for this man Feynriel."

Anders opened his mouth, but Fenris shot him a fierce look. "I know of magisters and their apprentices. Even if the man is decent, life with his master will have twisted him. You have _no idea_ what the magisters do to those who serve them. Pray to the Maker you never will."

"True," Anders said, resigned. "But I do have an inkling of what happens if you give one part of your society absolute power over the other. Whether or not life is worth living shouldn't depend on whoever may be holding your chains."

Fenris shook his head. His white hair fell in disarray over his face and he pushed it back impatiently. "You wouldn't last a day, with or without that damned spirit. Not even as a slave, though healers are in high demand for obvious reasons. To be a magister, even an apprentice, you need to be a vicious predator. You may have killed, but you're no true killer, Anders. Not a wolf, not even a snake." He snorted. "If anything you're a mongoose. Or possibly a meerkat."

"I have no idea what that is," Anders replied while busying himself with pouring two more cups of mulled wine.

Fenris snatched a stiff-backed, hardly used copy of _Temerius' Itinerary_ off a shelf. It was a rare codex, expensive because of the coloured illustrations but difficult to sell on a black market. The mansion of Fenris' old master in Kirkwall had held one. Hawke had no idea the elf had actually taken to heart his suggestion of learning how to read. The pages crackled as Fenris flicked through them until he stabbed a slender, lyrium-tattooed finger at a picture of a small mammal with a long, thin tail sitting on its hind legs.

When the other three took a curious look at its sleek body, tapered face and very pointed nose, Hawke nearly choked on his wine. Isabela smacked him on the back, snorting and nearly collapsing herself. Anders laughed until he was out of breath. The wide smile and crinkle of crow's feet around his eyes stayed for quite some time though. Coughing and blinking away tears, Hawke felt flushed with joy as much as wine gone the wrong way. _He's back. Good._

They listened to Fenris finishing his hair-raising tale of magisters, their apprentices and the demons they rubbed shoulders with. It caused Anders to dryly comment that he wanted to be reminded never to go to Tevinter. "Oh. Wait..."

The magister and apprentice Fenris had known more intimately than he ever cared to were his old master Danarius and his apprentice Hadriana. Fenris had killed them both – the man who had turned him into a lyrium one-man fighting force and his toxic apprentice who'd helped him make the young elf's life a nightmare, but not for several years.

It was Varania, Fenris' own sister, who finally brought Danarius to him in exchange for a promise to study magic. Fenris had been outraged that his sister betrayed him so that the servant might one day become a master herself. He'd been ready to kill her then and there, but Hawke and Varric had kept him from it. She fled and later, the elf had bitterly remarked it was just as well. He owed her for leading Danarius to his death. Fenris would probably never let go of his distrust of magic, but the years spent with Gaelen Hawke and Bethany Hawke had added a new spectrum of colours to his world of back and white and grey. His journey had been a long one, and at this particular curve in its path he had come to the conclusion that if Varania was to be saved, it was up to him. For an elven servant, freedom in the Tevinter Imperium was as good as no freedom at all.

When they returned to the deck, the sky was already starting to darken without the aid of ill-omened clouds to blot out the sun. The tilt of the ship was normal, the creaking of the sails and the wood as usual. It was as if there hadn't been a violent storm mere hours ago at all. Still, the earlier exertion had taken its toll and Hawke eventually decided to retire early for the night. Anders followed him, which resulted in muffled murmurs from Isabela that sounded suspicously like 'meerkat.' Fenris said nothing, though his green eyes sparkled with mild amusement.

* * *

><p><em>No. It couldn't be. He had been so careful! How could they have passed his defences? Worse, how could they have passed those of magister Ysarian? <em>

_As a boy, he hadn't been very strong, in spite of his size compared to the elven youths. He was no fighter, no one had trained him as such, and his mother had always forbidden him to join one of the Alienage gangs. He'd spent the better part of his life cultivating his magic, at home, with the Dalish, here in the Imperium and finally, finally, the Dreamer mage was allowed some dreams of his own – until now. What in the Maker's name was happening to him?_

_His last thought before the darkness closed in was of Rosal. Let her be alright. Please let her be alright. _

Anders startled awake with a jolt. For a moment he worried his dream had woken Gaelen as well, as per usual, but the body next to him had tensed up long before he'd made any noise. "Anders?" His voice was hoarse and thick with sleep, but there was definitely a note of alarm in it. Anders lifted the pitch black gloom of night inside a ship by conjuring a soft light, nothing too bright. When his vision had adjusted, he saw Gaelen blinking his eyes that looked like molten gold in the pale, ghostly gleam of his magelight.

"You too?" Anders wiped his clammy brow. "I haven't the faintest idea of what that was."

"A dream. Someone else's. Feynriel's, I'd say."

Anders shivered as the cooling beads of sweat chilled his skin. When he touched Gaelen's arm, he felt him tremble as well. "I'm not sure. It felt very real... though it always does," he added softly. He settled back on their narrow bed. When his mind had sufficiently cleared, he formulated the thought he'd been turning over in his head. "Why would he send the two of us the same dream?"

"Well," Hawke said slowly, "if you're right and it _wasn't_ a dream..."

"I hoped you wouldn't say that."

"...maybe something has happened and it was sent to us as something of a last resort."

Anders groaned. "Didn't I tell you _not_ to say that? No, I didn't. Nevermind." He covered his face with his pillow. "I suppose we don't know anything for certain before we reach Minrathous. No use in getting our knickers in a twist before we get there."

"Wise words."

Anders let the magelight wink out and nestled back against Gaelen. If anything he should be used to strange dreams and nightmares now. _No use in worrying before we get to Tevinter, right? Right. _

It still took him several hours to get back to sleep.


	5. No Quarter

Author's note: And we're back in business. I've realized I have become a bit spoiled over the first few chapters; I benefit so much from being beta'ed. But when Real Life comes knocking with cookies, you'd best answer the door. Here's to Reflection Muse for bearing with me so far: thanks for everything!

For this one strangegibbon, Bane of the Common Comma, came to the heroic rescue. Many, many thanks! And as always, any rogue interpunction and silly mistakes are mine.

* * *

><p><strong>No Quarter<strong>

Squall and shared disturbing dreams aside they made good time, but Isabela was anxious to have her precious _Siren's Call_ restored to her full glory. Despite the distraction provided by her youngest sailor, who played a Rivaini bone-carved flute, she kept tossing annoyed glances at the torn sails.

The boy couldn't be much older than fifteen but he knew an impressive number of tunes. Some of them were melodies without lyrics, lively or full of longing, others were traditional folk songs and old favourites. Often the words were slightly different, but many of the other crewmen knew them. The truly popular ones got reprised enough for anyone to join in. Anders did; he had a passable singing voice. He could deliver even the dirty bits with a flourish.

Gaelen Hawke wisely kept his silence. He'd played the lute after a fashion, years ago back in Lothering, but for the good of all involved, singing had never been something he did voluntarily. Bethany used to, and if pressured by their mother, Carver would sometimes join her. After their flight to the Free Marches and her twin's death, he'd rarely heard his sister sing anymore though there had been that time when she added her voice to Merrill's in her elegy to the dead Keeper of her clan. To this day it was the most hauntingly beautiful melody he'd ever heard. These, of course, were different songs.

"_Embers were her eyes_

_She woke seven sorts o' fire in me_

_No man can e'er swim against_

_The tide of sweet calamity_

_Swept beneath her waves_

_Driftin' far from coast and –"_

"Cap'n!"

The lookout's shout brought an abrupt end to the singing. Isabela shaded her eyes against the glare of sunshine mirrored in the waves. "What is it?"

"Sails on starboard bow!"

Isabela bared her white teeth in a wicked grin. "Oh good. About time something happened – for a while I feared every lowlife scum and greasy bastard around these waters was busy feeding the jellyfish."

"Shouldn't that be sharks?" Anders asked while he strained to watch the tiny ship in the distance. "More menacing. Definitely... pointier."

"I'll stick with the jellyfish. Creepier. Blobbier. Less _aaargh_! More _yuck_. Anyway." She raised her voice again. "What's her course?"

"Headin' straight for us," the lookout called back.

The other ship was somewhat smaller than the _Siren_, faster and with a more streamlined hull. _Built for pursuit,_ Anders thought. He was proven right by another cry from the lookout. "They be flyin' the red. Looks like they be seekin' t' board us!"

"Hey, that's not allowed!" Isabela protested indignantly. While the deck suddenly bustled with her crew preparing themselves for combat, she pointed out the other ship's blood red flag with the tip of one of her daggers. "We're in for it now. That means no quarter."

"I take it that's not Ship for saying there's no small change on board?" Gaelen Hawke enquired, peering at the vessel that was now closing swiftly, like a fast predatory fish in a feeding frenzy.

"It means that whatever violent and ill-tempered bugger they have in command is of a mind to kill everyone on the _Siren's Call_," Isabela explained amiably.

Fenris had appeared behind them, silent and graceful as a cat. His giant sword was still strapped to his back, but he had loosened it in its sheath. "Good," he commented in his gravelly voice, so soft it was almost a purr. "It's always useful to face an enemy who has a goal so similar to your own."

The red flag streamed in the wind. It may have been meant as a dire warning, a way to terrify the men and weaken resistance, but on Isabela's hand-picked crew it had quite the opposite effect. They were more than eager to give the other pirates a warm and bloody welcome. As the enemy ship closed the final distance Anders for the first time regretted his personal array of spells didn't include something gloriously destructive. A firestorm would have reduced the thing to kindling soon enough.

Even before he joined the Wardens he'd been combat trained. All Ferelden mages were, to an extent. That's what they were: weapons, to be kept locked away and bludgeoned into submission until they were necessary for some purpose like waging war on the qunari or the darkspawn. He'd been better at it than most, too. Ironically, that was mostly due to his many escape attempts. He was resourceful, resilient and could think on his feet. The Wardens had recognized this, but not very long after his recruitment he found himself under the command of those who wanted to forge him into another weapon, albeit of a different kind.

He'd responded as he usually did: by running away. And then he'd merged with Justice, turning himself into a walking paradox, a tool for the purpose of destroying the very practice of turning people into tools. With the annihilation of the Kirkwall Chantry, he'd fully expected to die, except then he didn't and the dreams came for him... the dreams and the guilt he carried, asleep or awake.

That, too, was justice in a sense. Maybe even more than had he died paying for those innocent lives with his own. The joined attempts of sorting out the pieces of the creature he'd become made him less certain. In his moments of darkness, he – or Justice – was painfully aware he was not deserving of this shred of hope no matter the price he paid in the Fade, which was far worse than his Harrowing.

A fight like this would show if it served him any better., at least. He felt a stab of apprehension at the thought of losing control in such a confined area as a ship. _Come to think of it, maybe not having a firestorm at my disposal is for the best._

"Here they come," Hawke warned. "Grab something sharp and pointy that isn't Fenris!"

"Funny, Hawke," the lyrium-tattooed elf replied flatly.

And then the wave of enemy pirates hit the _Siren_'s deck. Hawke dodged the first wild swing of a cutlass aimed at his head. His answer was short and brutal. Without so much as a word the pirate tumbled off the ship and landed into the water with a soft splash, yet more followed, using planks, ropes, and grappling hooks. Crossbow bolts splintered wood and thudded into flesh and bone.

Fenris, locked in close combat with three attackers, was hit just below the hip with nearly enough force to knock him off his feet. Cursing, he brought up his sword barely in time to parry a blow that otherwise would have speared his chest, but without proper footing he was unable to press it to any advantage. With a grunt the elf tore the bolt free and Anders healed the wound with a flash of healing energy.

The surprise was enough for Fenris to floor one of his opponents with a vicious kick and nearly cleave another one clean in two. The shocked expression on the face of the third barely had time to settle before another massive swing from the elf's sword took off the man's head. When a new band of pirates made their way to the fearsome elf and his long reach, Fenris was ready for them, his markings flaring and his body fading into a lyrium-imbued, wraithlike state.

Gaelen Hawke had leapt and tumbled and kicked his way into the middle of a group of enemies, tearing into them and landing stroke after devastating stroke with deadly efficiency. After the initial confusion and debilitating effect on enemy morale, he was gradually pushed back. His dexterity and quick reflexes kept him out of harm's way though until he and Isabela were fighting back to back. Their blades moved in a blur of smooth parries and thrusts, only broken by a swift and decidedly unsportsmanlike long-legged boot landing squarely in the more forceful opponent's privates.

This drew a raw chuckle from a brawny man to Anders' left who had both a notched sword and the wildest, bushiest beard the mage had ever seen. Merrill would have been impressed beyond measure. To Anders, the man's face looked like it was being attacked by a wild animal.

"Keep the wench and the shiny elf alive," he bellowed, "they'll fetch a decent price!"

_A thug with a nose for slavery on the side, then. Lovely. _With a realization that tied his stomach in knots, Anders felt the vengeful spirit inside of him stir and snarl. _Hold it back. It'll come when you call._ He couldn't tell if the voice was Feynriel's, Gaelen's, his own or someone elses's.

Staring at the burly pirate with the rust-coloured explosion of facial hair, Anders grinned in spite of himself. He'd never even been able to grow a decent wizardly beard. All he managed was the more or less permanent shadow of fuzzy stubble he rarely bothered to shave, whilst Gaelen, despite not being a very hairy man, dutifully did so every day and still looked unkempt. If kept unchecked, would his beard reach such epic proportions?

A lanky pirate armed with a rapier appeared beside his companion. Both of them noticed Anders' lack of weapons and decided he was an easy target. The look on their faces was almost comical when he flung up a barrier so fast that the telekinetic field knocked them both off their feet. The brawny man spat out a mouthful of blood. "What the-"

"Hell," finished Anders, as a new blast of arcane energy tore into his enemy's muscular bulk and he collapsed nto a lifeless heap.

"_Fuck_!" the other pirate screamed.

"Well yes, that works too," Anders smirked before one of Isabela's sailors sank his blade into the stunned pirate's back.

The tide was definitely turning in their favour. The boldness had fled from the attackers, replaced by a grim, desperate desire to stay alive. Their jeers and cocky challenges had all but died out, while Isabela's crew, bolstered by their own success and encouraged by their captain and her Champion, roared out their triumph. As they mopped up the last of the opposition, Anders caught sight of a sudden flash of flame. On the deck of the other ship, two young men had lit large resin torches. With all the tar and sails and ropes near, he wondered if they hadcompletely lost it.

Then it dawned on him that that was exactly what was happening. A third man was preparing what looked to be arrows dipped in some flammable accelerant. With the battle lost, if they couldn't have the _Siren_, they would burn her down to the waterline. Judging from an abrupt cry of rage, they now had caught Isabela's eye as well, but she was too far away from them to intervene.

_It'll come when you call._ Pushing aside his trepidation, Anders reached out to the spirit inside. The focus and intensity of Justice settled over him like an intangible cloak of power, invigorating and potent. He just hoped he could slip out of it again as smoothly. As a specialist in magic relying on considerable finesse, spells that coaxed and transformed rather than primal conjuration, his own mastery of flame was limited to a modest ability to shape fireballs. Even those were far less impressive than what Bethany or Merrill could rain down on their enemies but the raw power of Justice made the manipulation of the hungry tongues of flame somehow seem easy.

At a gesture the torches suddenly flared into fiery pillars that washed over their unfortunate keepers. The men's screams drew the attention of everyone still standing and after the luckless raiders leapt overboard, flailing wildly, the others stared at the resulting fire. Concentrating, surrounded by the faintest glow of blue, Anders willed it to die down.

Afterwards, he closed his eyes and commanded the power of the spirit back into its tethers. He stood still for a while, drained and light-headed, but also wrapped in a growing feeling of exultation. He had maintained his control, here, in the waking, material world. Even while he was far from eager to try it again anytime soon, it was a victory of sorts, a reward for all their hard work, a bright little light of hope.

It was also enough to have the few remaining pirates surrender. While her men boarded the enemy ship to inspect its hold for plunder, Isabela grabbed a surprised Anders by the front of his shirt and kissed him hard. While his mind still recovered from her sudden attack on whatever remained of his virtue, his body reacted with several years of practice, much to her amusement. When she let go of the mage Isabela beamed at Hawke, who raised a mock-offended eyebrow at her, and Fenris, who was wiping his sword on a pirate's prone body. "That was fun! And I can't believe I've never thought of getting my own apostate before!"

Anders rearranged his clothing. "Well, if that's the welcome they get, someone's bound to join soon," he said dryly. Isabela grinned and nudged Hawke in the ribs. "Don't look at me like that," she teased. "Cutting a swath through your enemies? You did nothing you don't normally do before lunch." With that, she patted him on the head and went to take a look at what treasure the other ship held.

* * *

><p>The calm sea was the colour of wine in the warm sunset when the <em>Siren's Call<em> approached Minrathous. The ancient capital of the Tevinter Imperium was a sprawling marvel of majestic architecture, rising up behind mighty walls. High towers adorned with breath-taking spires, marble structures supported by huge but elegantly formed columns and impressive domes basked in the last of the golden-red sunlight.

Gaelen Hawke recognized the style from his years in Kirkwall, but the City of Chains was merely a remnant, he saw now, of a time long past when this city was the center of the whole known world. Kirkwall had been but an outpost. Still the enormous and awe-inspiring yet graceful sculptures, full of an ethereal beauty, seemed familiar.

Even with his arms around Anders' waist he could tell that both of them were staring. They had seen much more of the world than the average Fereldan refugee or mage, but that hadn't prepared them for a sight like this. "Impressive," he murmured.

"Beautiful, even," Anders agreed slowly, "in a... slave-built, bloodstained, virgins and kittens terrifying sort of manner."

"Look closer," Fenris advised as the ship drew nearer to port.

They did. As they closed the distance, they saw that many of the grand buildings apart from the towers were crumbling and dirty. Though the architectural genius of their builders kept them safe and stable, the massive arched bridges were damaged in many places. Beyond the high city walls, refugee camps and slums had sprung up over the years. Their stench and that of the docks district assaulted them unexpectedly, smelling of rot and waste.

The homes in the city area itself were in better shape, but the decay had struck here too. Above the small areas of residence the towers rose high, far away from them, reaching for the sky. Their proud spires and domes were shining, adorned with gilded designs and glittering crystals.

"At least it's clear who's in charge here," Hawke observed.

Fenris nodded. "Welcome to the domain of the magisters." He studied Anders coolly before he continued. "Don't think you're safe either if you have magic. They do not hesitate to chain those who do not use blood magic, and with that damned spirit inside, you'd be a lucky bastard indeed to die before they start dissecting you."

"Can't be," Anders drawled. "I'm not a bastard, my parents were devout Andrastians. And married. To each other, even."

Hawke smothered a grin, but decided against provoking Fenris any further. Things were difficult enough for the elf as they were. With the advantage of having known him for years he recognized the way his friend held his tension tightly in check. It was in his stance, as if he wanted to make himself small – but ready to unleash himself on any danger should it present itself, like a coiled spring.

Hawke looked at the imposing and mysterious testimony to the Imperium's former glory again and felt a shiver creep up his spine. Involuntarily, his loose hold around Anders tightened. "Well. All we need to do is find a Dreamer and a magister, then whisk away a mage from under a powerful maleficar's nose. What can possibly go wrong?"


	6. Keep Your Friends Close

Author's note: Being unemployed doesn't do much for inspiration, I'm afraid. Anyway, on a happier note, this chapter is a bit longer than usual. Many, many thanks to strangegibbon for editing. I keep learning with every new page. And for those of you who remember the good old days of the first Baldur's Gate: spot the reference :)

* * *

><p><strong>Keep Your Friends Close<strong>

After Isabela made docking arrangements for the _Siren_ and assigned a few of her most loyal men to guard her treasure, they set off into the city. Enquiries toward Feynriel and his master yielded little, though that was to be expected. The docks were hardly an area frequented by magisters and their apprentices.

With the Tevinter Imperium being the center of legal trade and the black market, some of the harbourmasters and their assistants could get by in three different languages or more. On the other hand, it did not make them more polite. The last clerk Gaelen Hawke approached for information interrupted him with a gruff "Who are you?" and when the answer didn't translate as 'someone important enough to make life unpleasant for you', the man merely told him to get his Fereldan arse out of the way.

Following the man's advice they left behind the harbour, its unhelpful workers and the squat, practical buildings where the scent of decay that had hit them on the _Siren's Call_ had seeped into the red and yellow bricks. These were a far cry from the gleaming monuments and massive walls that were testimony to the city's power.

A procession of slaves passed by, every man or woman chained to the one in front of them so they could do little more than shuffle forward to whatever slave market would take them. Another group, mostly elves, wore no chains, but their closed-off, empty expressions were much the same. Fenris explained that it was common practice for many elves and some destitute humans to sell themselves into slavery in order to provide for their families or settle their debts.

Beneath his usual calm facade there was a hint of murder about the tattooed elf as the slaves walked past. Then he straightened his back and cast Hawke a defiant glance, his gauntleted fingers slowly unclenching by his side. With a nod at Fenris, Hawke casually took his hand off Anders' shoulder. It was probably wise not to mention that he'd dug a few warning fingers into it hard enough to hurt but the flash of blue in the mage's brown eyes had escaped notice.

It was unlikely that anything here would touch on Anders' old hurts of the abuse of mages... but Justice hadn't proven to be the most stable of spirits and there was plenty of injustice going around. _I have to know. Should I lose myself completely, I need you to put an end to it._ Hawke felt the prickle of sweat in his palms long after he resolutely put the thought out of his mind.

Brick and wood gave way to marble and sandstone although many of the flagstones were cracked - little insolent tufts of dry grass suggested they'd been in disrepair for some time. The same was true for the fountains. Their carved surfaces were broken, often missing whole panels that were probably carried off by thieves. They must have been magnificent once with fresh water flowing freely for everyone from the refined sculptures as a sign of Minrathous' wealth. Now they were mostly filled with dust.

Statues were scattered throughout, most of them lacking body parts. Broken-off heads or limbs aside, many pedestals were empty with just the name of the archon or hero they represented. Fenris raised his dark eyebrows at a rough inscription carved underneath two highly detailed but lonely feet. "'_City Guards Are Bastards',_" he translated in a dry tone. "Well it has to be said, if it weren't for literacy, I could never have appreciated these fully before."

Fact was that the elf's memory served him well enough to determine the general direction they needed to go, provided this magister had an accommodation similiar to that of Danarius, but that was all. Much had changed in more than a decade. More refugees, for instance. Many people might not recognize him as a runaway slave and those who did may think it prudent to pretend not to. In any case only Danarius or his heirs could lay claim to him or come forth with a formal accusation, as he pointed out with a good deal of false confidence.

Hawke found the unease behind the words hardly surprising. "So did Danarius leave any heirs?" he asked.

"I have no idea," Fenris replied with a shrug. "Hadriana's as dead as Danarius. There was an early marriage so he may very well have had children. Not that I ever met them. Danarius was a wealthy man with a lot of property everywhere. I never wondered about any offspring." He snorted. "A better question might be what happened to the wife. All I know is that she was never spoken of."

"At least they wouldn't know you then," Isabela said cheerfully, but even she didn't quite sound entirely sure of herself. Lyrium-scarred elven warrior slaves were a very rare commodity.

The entrances to the more resplendent parts of the city as Fenris remembered them were guarded, this one by a bored looking watchman with small dark eyes and a staff spear. At Hawke's statement he had business with a magister named Ysarian, the man gave him a long, hard stare and yet another blunt "Who are you?"

"Gaelen Hawke of Ferelden," Hawke answered in the same steely tone. "My business is my own."

Though the scowl remained the guard didn't prod them any further. The area behind him had broad, neatly paved streets. The fountains here were whole and they bubbled soothingly or spouted jets of water high into the air. On the sides of a busy square lightly dressed Tevinters sipped from flutes of wine in the shade provided by the overhead arcades.

Fenris walked up the square to a youth carrying a carefully wrapped package. He was waiting respectfully for a man in a sleeveless silk robe to finish his conversation with a woman. The lady's jeweled fingers rested comfortably around one of the most impressive mage staves Hawke had seen. It appeared to be made of dark dragonbone polished to a shine, adorned with gold and jade and inlaid with pearly designs that bore a curious resemblance to Fenris' markings.

While Fenris talked with the servant, one of the man's more heavyset companions stepped up to Hawke. "I don't recognize you or your slave," he said. He sounded polite, but his stance was less than welcoming. "Who are you?"

Hawke finally lost his patience nad gave up. This was a bodyguard after all, not a watchman or a magister. "Why," he said brightly, "we're a horde of rampaging Archdemons! Krie! Krie!"

The bodyguard's eyes narrowed yet before he could make a reply Fenris' metal-clad hand landed meaningfully on Hawke's arm. "The boy suggests asking _her_." The elf nodded in the direction of a slender elven woman a short distance away. Hawke grinned at the bodyguard who was shaking his head at the mad foreigner and followed Fenris.

The elven woman turned out to be much more forthcoming. She greeted them warmly and favoured Hawke with a tired smile. "Feynriel's friend, yes? I'm Rosal. It's a pleasure to meet you. Master Ysarian is expecting you."

Hawke recalled where he'd heard the name before and studied her. She was slight, with brown hair and long, tapered ears. "He's your master?"

"I'm a freedwoman," she corrected graciously.

"A former slave? You must be special to him then."

The young woman blushed.

"She's a concubine. Or _was_," Fenris sneered, which caused her flush to deepen.

Hawke raised his eyebrows. He caught himself thinking that she wasn'tall that beautiful, even if her dimples were pretty. Rosal caught his eye. "I'm no exquisite beauty, Gaelen Hawke," she said softly, with a touch of pride, "but that wasn't what he looked for. I'm my own woman now and one who counts herself as fortunate."

Hawke smiled ruefully. "The captain of the Guard back in Kirkwall was a friend of mine. She'd already have hit me for that and no mistake." He cleared his throat. "If your master's expecting us, can we come with you to see Feynriel?"

He was taken aback by the sudden tears welling in her eyes. She determinedly blinked them away before answering him. "I can take you to magister Ysarian, but Feynriel... he's missing. He disappeared one night and nobody knows where he is."

Hawke and Anders exchanged a worried glance of understanding. "You and he...?" Hawke ventured, and was rewarded with a nod and a sniffle. He produced one of his red kerchiefs and handed it to Rosal. "Perhaps," he said as gently as he could while she dabbed at her eyes, "you should take us to your magister."

* * *

><p>Hawke wasn't entirely certain what he'd imagined Feynriel's master to be like. He knew the man was a powerful magister and member of the Imperial senate with an aptitude for defeating rival magisters in magical duels. Perhaps he expected someone like Danarius, an elderly mage with cold, dead eyes.<p>

As it was even Ysarian's age was hard to tell. He was seated behind an old but expensive-looking rosewood desk, a man with dark brown hair and boyish looks coupled with crow's feet and fine lines between feathery brows. Hawke's best bet was somewhere early to mid-forties, but he could be entirely wrong on either side. Ysarian's lively, intense gaze lingered for a while on the deceptively simple staff Anders wore on his back to finally rest on Gaelen Hawke.

"You do have the eyes," the magister said with barely a trace of Tevinter in his voice. "What, if I may ask, eventually befell Malcolm Hawke?"

Hawke stared at the man as if he saw water burn, which, admittedly, would be a small matter for a magister. On his list of expectations, a chat about his parentage would have been right at the bottom. He didn't think there was any harm in answering, though he felt his nerves twinge. "He died in Ferelden of something he said no one could heal," he heard himself say. "You knew him?"

Ysarian stared at his long-fingered hands with a carefully neutral expression. "I met him. I might even tell you how at some point. Suffice to say he deserved better than that. Was it darkspawn Taint?"

"Possibly. It... might well have been something else. The consequence of a magic he worked very long ago." And that was something he didn't care to elaborate on.

Not that he had to; if anyone knew about the cost of such rituals, Hawke realized bitterly, it had to be a Tevinter magister.

"You've certainly been busy after Ferelden," Ysarian said, airily changing the subject. "Rising to power as Champion of Kirkwall, destroying Chantries, starting a war..."

"Just one Chantry. And that wouldn't have happened but for Knight-Commander Meredith of the templars."

"Well, her, or some nameless apostate mage." A curious half-smile played over Ysarian's features as if he were enjoying a private joke. "Tell me something, Champion of Kirkwall. Would you have stopped him?"

Hawke's throat was suddenly dry. "Yes," he managed, "though I am more and more convinced that forcing a change was necessary."

Despite his discomfort he noticed that even the faintest hint of Arcanum had left the magister's speech. It sounded now as if he'd been born and raised in Ferelden and it made Hawke wonder if he wasn't being made a piece in a strange, tangled game. There was no beginning figuring him out. _And keep in mind Tevinter games often end in bloodshed._

"I see. Well," Ysarian said smoothly, "with that out of the way... Alrion!"

At his master's call a flaxen-haired elf poked his head around a heavy oaken door. "Yes?"

"You can let in my other guests now."

The elf was pushed aside by a company of templars wearing uniforms in the style of the Free Marches. Their eyes glittered behind the narrow slits of their helmets, the only sign the armour was occupied by living humans. Blind zeal didn't require a face.

Vengeance burst forth in a blaze. There was no warning, no transformation. There was only the spirit violently tearing free of the bonds the mage had been painstakingly strengthening. As only those closest to him and Feynriel knew, when his control broke, it cracked wide open. A field of destructive energy was forming all around his shimmering form, focused around his fingertips, reflected in the merciless, glowing eyes. "_You shall go no further_," the warped voice thundered. "Y_our blood will stream from you like water. Justice will __**break**__ you!_"

With a silken sound Isabela unsheathed her cutlasses. Fenris reached back for his sword and Gaelen Hawke, groaning miserably, had already snatched up both of his blades. Ysarian's silk and velvet robes gracefully fell to his slippered feet as he stood. He was a tall man, taller than Anders or Hawke, and at his gesture several previously invisible, man-sized glyphs inscribed on the walls flared to life.

Vengeance roared in fury and agony as the wards' magic bound the spirit in place. Unable to continue its stalking path towards the templars the only thing it could do was making Anders' body writhe and scream as the blue glow surrounding it swirled with darkness. It was a trap and one that had obviously been well prepared.

"Hold."

At Ysarian's command, the templars immediately obeyed. Fenris dipped his sword a fraction, but his catlike eyes locked onto the magister himself with a fierceness that eerily mirrored the expression on Anders' face now stolen by Justice. Isabela attempted a quick lunge but Hawke stopped her with a word, prowling backwards in Ysarian's direction.

The magister turned to Hawke. "These are men of my household guard." He gestured at the heavily armoured men. "The uniforms were a bit tricky, but they are more readily available on the black market every day. I suggest you stay your hand – and let them leave."

Still watchful, and still approaching Ysarian, Hawke nodded at Fenris and Isabela. They reluctantly put up their weapons but kept their hands on the hilts, wary glances divided between Ysarian and his guards. One of the men raised his helmeted head towards the magister and asked something in the Tevinter language. If they were Marchers, they were doing a splendid job of hiding it. Ysarian gave a short reply and the men left with a respectful salute.

The glyphs along the walls pulsed with a soft green light while the spellbound magister examined the captive spirit and his helpless human host. "Look at that," he whispered, "the dissolution..."

Stormclouds raged in Gaelen Hawke's head as he gathered all of his upper body strength into one powerful swing. _Punching a magister. Do I have that much of a death wish?_ At the last moment he uncurled his closed fist and his open hand connected with the man's face in a stinging, satisfying _thwack_. He realized belatedly that slapping a magister might not be such a good idea either, but to his astonishment the only response he got was a slight wince.

The intricately drawn wards flickered fitfully. In their midst the raging spirit's blue aura did the same. His screams had died down to a whimper and when the light of the glyphs finally winked out, the tension drained out of the mage's body. He slumped to the floor on his hands and knees – just Anders, shivering violently.

Hawke hurried over and knelt down. For one awful moment there was no spark of recognition, nothing but the look of a wounded animal. As realization sank in it was replaced by a dull bleakness, a possession that Hawke knew to be ever so much slower than a destructive spirit taking over a body, but just as fatal. Hawke placed his palms against both sides of Anders' face. "Don't," he pleaded. "No one could be prepared for this. I'll take it out of his hide, I promise!"

Shakily, Anders rose to his feet, straightening his torn shirt. With a little effort he even managed a weak smile. "No need," he said, his voice raw. "Just... tired."

Hawke put his arm around the mage's shoulders to steady anger had subsided. Now he just felt powerless._ This is all wrong, terribly wrong. _Maker's blood, he'd take the nightmares too if only he could. It simply wasn't fair.

Ysarian hadn't offered an apology, probably because he wasn't very sorry, though he'd taken Hawke's blow without so much as a word. Perhaps in an odd way he thought it made them even. When Hawke found his words again, his voice was dangerously low. "Feynriel said you Tevinters like tales of the Champion of Kirkwall. They're mostly true. And unless you want to make yourself part of a new one, explain yourself. Now."

Ysarian perched on one side of the rosewood table. "Well, we're not exactly known to account for our actions. It's a magister thing. You learn it as you go along." He sighed. "Yet if you insist...I haven't upset as many people as you have, but I may have let a significant number of powerful people upset themselves. They're very good at it." He gingerly touched the burning skin of his cheek. "Feynriel. You. Your possessed mage. Everything else aside, you also make me vulnerable. Feynriel is a very loyal lad who hasn't tried to kill me once. Touching, truly, and very rare among apprentices, but his greater loyalty lies with you. I did not know everything since he never divulged the exact details of his work with you to me, but he did make use of my knowledge and, more importantly, my library. Reading between the lines is not all that difficult. Yet I do not have his familiarity with you or his first-hand understanding. I needed to know, to examine. To have my vulnerability _exposed –_ that would be a highly complicated form of suicide."

Hawke looked sideways. "I understand," said Anders, resigned. He was very pale. "Can't say I like his methods, but I've been worse for wear."

"Isabela?"

She shrugged. "Any magister worth his salt has the compassion of a shark and the selflessness of a pirate. At least you got to smack him in the face."

"Thank you," Ysarian said solemnly. "Now I propose that for safety's sake, both yours and mine, my home is yours for the duration of your stay in Minrathous."

Fenris exploded. "_Venhedis_, Hawke, he is a _magister_!," he snarled, " For all we know he cut out Feynriel's heart himself! Don't tell me you trust the man!"

"I don't," Hawke admitted wearily. "But he could have killed us already, and something tells me he can find us if we try to lay low. Which means that others can too." Anders nodded his agreement. He'd spent enough years in hiding to know how difficult it was, especially when people were after you. And this time there was no mage underground to keep them safe.

Isabela crossed her arms over her chest. "Not for me, sweet thing. I have business to attend to that doesn't mix well with magisters. If you want me, you'll have to come to the docks. _Quietly_. Preferably at night." She smirked at Ysarian. "That goes for you too, dressboy. Though do let me know if you have one of those amazing steamy baths with different water temperatures and coconut oil massages."

"I can't believe this, even from you! You _don't_ invite a viper into your bed!" Fenris spat. He walked up to Hawke and pulled him aside. "I can't let you do this," he growled so softly it was almost a groan. "You have no idea what you're getting yourself into."

Ysarian held up a hand, ignoring the anger radiating from the elf like heat off a forest fire. "In my own defence, I'm not Danarius with his flair for drama and his little obsessions. Other than my choice of wardrobe."

"_Vasta fass_, Hawke" Fenris snarled. "This is madness, but if you must know – I shall stay. You need someone in his right mind to watch your back since you so openly invite a knife to it."

"...of course if I _were_ Danarius, I'd be dead," Ysarian said thoughtfully. A mischievous glimmer appeared in his dark eyes. "Those tales from the Free Marches do mention you're a natural leader, Gaelen Hawke."

"That's just Politician for 'has a mean anti-authoritarian streak'," Hawke grumbled.

"And remarkably successful when it comes to getting Feynriel out of trouble."

"He should get a subscription. I'll give him a discount." It was as Merrill had put it. _Feynriel draws demon like pastry draws Varric._

"All means I can provide are at your disposal," Ysarian continued. "That goes for both the spirit possession as well as finding Feynriel." He paused. "You've restored some hope to his wife at least."

Hawke blinked. "His what? Fenris said she was some sort of-"

"Well, I couldn't very well have my apprentice marry a slave, so I freed her. She still works for me, of course." He caught Fenris' look of disgust and Isabela's interest and sighed. "Not in the same fashion, Maker forbid, that would be adultery and the poor old dears at the Chantry would have a heart attack. She serves as my librarian and archivist. Excuse me."

He slid off the table and peered into the hallway to look for the elf who'd ushered in the 'templars', but the boy had either run or left his master to his mindgames. "Alrion left us, I see. I'd be grateful if none of you tried to kill me while I get you your accommodation and a decent dinner." His gaze met Anders' and the enigmatic smile returned. "...and as a return favour, I'd appreciate it if you'd refrain from blowing up any Chantries during your stay."


End file.
